Come All You Weary
by presque vu
Summary: In which Amanda Milligan is the polar opposite of a Winchester and two shotgun-toting mechanics attempt to teach her the rules of survival while also impersonating fictional characters from bad 80's movies. Sister fic.


**Author's Note: So I found out that my favorite series (The Winchester Three by insearchofcheese) is no longer published anywhere on the internet ever. While I doubt my writing will be nearly as good as the amazingness that was the Delaney Winchester saga, I decided to give up my search and write my own variation of a sister fic! And fair warning - my updates will definitely be slow because I've got a lot going on right now in real life. Anywho, please remember to review; constructive criticism is always appreciated! Happy reading and I hope you have a wonderful day! ^_^**

**Chapter I - Cobrastyle**

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Sam asks, shouldering a sports duffle. It contains all of the things they'll need to perform the necessary tests; none of which is actually sports equipment.

"For the hundredth time, Sam, yes." Dean answers with a sigh of annoyance. It feels like the hundredth time, but really it's only the fiftieth, maybe fifty first time he's answered the very same question since last night. "Just play it cool, wouldja?"

"But even if we manage to pull this off, what are we going to do if nothing happens?" Sam doesn't ask what they'll do if something does happen, because he knows the answer to that. They'll do what they always do because it's their job and they do it all the time. He asks what they'll do if nothing happens because... well, they've never been in a situation like this before.

"Oh, it'll happen. Trust me." Dean's response is a given, but then again, Sam is kind of hoping the same thing himself. "Same drill as always. We find it, we catch it, we kill it."

"Yeah, but what if-"

"What if my ass, Sammy."

"But Dean, what _**if-**_"

Dean freezes so quickly that Sam nearly plows him over. The oldest Winchester's shoulder muscles bunch up with tension and he jerks a hand up as if to swat the mother of all flies.

Sam instantly goes silent, eyes zoning in to where Dean is staring on the field up ahead. He doesn't see anything out of the ordinary. He pauses. He waits. When nothing happens, he leans in a little towards his brother.

"What is it?" Sam whispers cautiously in that volume he only uses when trying to be exceedingly sleuth during hunts. "What do you see?"

Dean keeps his gaze forward, but whispers back just as softly. "Nothing. I just wanted you to stop talking."

He feels the bitchface burn into the back of his skull, grins with renowned content at the pissy silence, and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

Ahhh, much better.

Now- They have a fugly in need of ganking.

The field is fresh with the smell of cut grass; teeming with girls ages fourteen to eighteen. There's a line of blue and white striped uniforms waiting to zigzag through traffic cones, jog down the side, and then run at "MAXIMUM SPEED, LADIES!" as the coach is yelling, down the length of the pitch to get back in formation.

The coach seems like one of those guys who've settled for less. You probably know the type; unhappy with his job, but still very enthusiastic about it. Wanted a chance at the big leagues, preferably football, and somehow ended up coaching a girls' high school soccer team in Windom. Fucking. Minnesota. He's popping his gum and shouting obscenities, but he tells himself that his heart is still in the right place. Still in the right place.

"WAZOWSKI! WHAT IN THE HOLY HELL WAS THAT?! DID YOU HAVE A _**SEIZURE**_ IN MID-KICK?! MY MOTHER COULD HAVE MADE THAT SHOT AND SHE'S IN A GODDAMN WHEELCHAIR!"

Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He glances at Sam, who shrugs in return. It seems that all the soccer trophies crammed in the back of their storage bin still can't explain the awe-inspiring skills of this dude's wheelchair-bound mother.

Dean shakes his head of the imagery and continues forward. Taps the man on the shoulder. "Michael Greenberg?"

The coach is a fair bit shorter than the Winchesters, practically a legal midget in comparison. His eyes are as big and wide-set as his mouth is; irises a color nestled somewhere between green and rotting-squash-yellow. He stares up at the two of them unblinkingly, blowing his whistle to let the next player up.

"If this is about that Laker's game, can it at least wait until after my practice?"

Dean blinks. Feels inclined to ask what Laker's game the man is talking about. But Sam blurts out the punch line before he can allow his curiosity to stretch.

"Coach Greenberg, my name is John Connor. This is my colleague, Kyle Reese. We're with SMWW."

Coach Greenberg nearly chokes on his whistle as he blows it once more, blinking in surprise. "Talent scouts? For _**my**_ team?"

Sam gives the man one of his vaguely understanding but-I-really-think-you're-an-idiot smiles. "You see, Mr. Greenberg, we just flew in from Bardstown and we're eager to get started..."

"No no! Yeah! Yeah, of course!" For a moment, Greenberg can't seem to make up his mind on which side he's on. But from the way he's beaming as if he's waited for this very moment his whole life, Dean and Sam know they're in.

As they move to the bleachers to take their seats, the screeching doubled blow of a whistle pierces the air, followed by a very enthusiastic, "CHANGE OF PLANS, LADIES! IT'S SCRIMMAGE TIME!"

"Dude." Dean grimaces slightly as he plops down next to Sam at the top of the bleachers. Directly in sight of a short, somewhat frumpy middle-aged mother who immediately bats her eyelashes at him, almost as if she's in the middle of a conniption. His initial reaction is to ask if she's okay, but instead he forces out a polite smile and focuses back on the field.

Green eyes squint in the sunlight as they watch the team split up into two groups. "What's the name again?"

"Uhhh..." Sam pulls a familiar Motorola flip phone out of the sports duffle. Scrolls through the text messages until he gets to the one he's looking for. "Milligan. Kate Milligan."

"Milligan..." Dean repeats, trying to read some of the uniforms from where they're sitting. Wazowski. Curtis. Abernathy. Heatherton. Fletcher. Moretti. "I see a Karrigan... No Milligan."

"Keep looking. She's bound to be here somewhere." Sam prompts as he rifles further through the duffle. Fishes out what is bound to be the world's biggest water bottle (sold exclusively at Target).

"What do we got to work with?" Dean inquires.

"Exactly what you told me. Sports jug filled with holy water. Sweat towels coated with silver shavings." Sam gives him a look that states he's hardly impressed, but Dean doesn't seem to notice because his eyes are still scoping the field like a hawk.

"Good. Whatever this thing is, it's gonna bleed." the older Winchester grunts out. "I mean, using Dad as bait? That's the last mistake of it's short, pitiful life."

Sam huffs in exasperation, but Dean obviously isn't paying much attention to him so his frustration goes unnoticed.

The conversation drops and they both settle down to focus on the scrimmage game.

Twenty minutes in and from the looks of things Abernathy is the best player they've got. Her "team" is in the lead and she's managed to zigzag her way down the field. However, just as she's about to pass to Curtis, Fletcher barrels her down out of nowhere as if they're playing tackle instead of soccer.

There's another piercing blow of a whistle. "FLETCHER! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

The blonde shrugs, although she looks fairly pleased with herself as she offers up a halfhearted, "Sorry, coach. Couldn't find the breaks."

Abernathy, on the other hand, is in far worse condition from the way she's curled up in a half fetal position on the grass, holding her ankle as if her life depends on it.

Upon discovering that it's only a bad sprain, Heatherton and Moretti are ordered to help her up off the ground and lead her towards the nurse's office.

Dean's face possesses a look of wide-eyed wonder. "_**Jesus**_..."

Sam nods in agreement with that statement, eyebrows raised in surprise. Jesus, indeed.

They're both thinking the same thing; nothing like that had ever happened at any of _Sam's_ soccer practices. Either the regulations have recently changed, or that Fletcher kid is possessed by pure, unadulterated evil.

Dean's considering indulging the idea that perhaps they should have brought more holy water when they hear it.

"Uhhh... MULLIGAN!" Coach Greenberg shouts, looking down at his clipboard.

The Winchesters are alert. Like hunting dogs on point. Their heads whip to the side to find the girl who'd been overlooked somehow. Although as soon as they see her, they both understand how that happened.

Her jersey is on backwards.

Sitting on the bench with the rest of the second strings, she stares up at Coach Greenberg with an expression of slack jawed awe. She's on the small side for sixteen, all knobby knees and stick-like arms. She has their features though; John's dark eyes, Sam's cheekbones, and the same nose (though he'll only grudgingly admit it) as Dean, including the light dusting of freckles.

If she turns out to only be a monster, that's still one damn impressive spawn impersonation.

"Wha-" _Mulligan_ sputters as if she's in the midst of drowning in her own shock. "I'm... I'm _playing_? Like... Like on the _**field**_?!"

"No, you're playing like on the chessboard." Greenberg snarks back before blowing his whistle. "YES ON THE FIELD!"

"Seriously?!" Shock quickly blossoms into a full blown overpowering excitement that lights up her entire face until she's practically the embodiment of sunshine. "I'm really-"

Greenberg interrupts with another warning blow of his whistle, causing the petite brunette to launch herself off of the bench and bolt down the length of the pitch.

She gets about halfway before tripping over the untied laces of her cleats.

Sprawling across the grass had never looked so graceless before, but Mulligan turns it into an awkward James Bond-esque roll that is more like Too-Drunk-To-Know-His-Own-Name Curly Howard.

By the time she actually gets to center circle, Sam isn't even bothering to be discreet about hiding a very smug smile behind his palm, Dean doesn't appear nearly as convinced with his monster theory as he originally was, and Greenberg is bashing his face repeatedly with his clipboard as if he's trying to put himself in a coma.

Once her cleats are firmly tied, she gives the coach a thumbs up.

He rolls his eyes up to the sky, blows his whistle, and reminds himself. His heart is in the right place. His heart is in the right place. His heart is in the right place...

He continues to inwardly chant the mantra, even after the red card penalties start flying. Denying an obvious goal-scoring opportunity by deliberately handling the ball (six times). Using offensive, insulting, or abusive language; the amount of oh shits, holy fucks, and watch-where-you're-running-bitchfaces are simply uncountable.

His heart is in the right place...

Even after the relentless use of careless or reckless force; her attempts at kicking, tripping, charging, striking, pushing, and jumping at her opponents are all, once again, simply uncountable. And he's not going to even _**bring up**_ the spitting and biting.

His heart is in the right place...

Even after she tries to football tackle Curtis for the ball, jabs Moretti in the eye, and ends up in a full blown scuffle with Heatherton, who in turn proceeds to punch the living shit out of her face.

His heart. Is in. The right. _**Fucking**_. Place.

It's when Heatherton, Moretti, and Curtis all jump on her that all holy hell breaks loose.

They're like ravenous, blood-thirsty animals. Heatherton and Moretti are quick gang up on Mulligan, hitting and kicking and punching everywhere they can reach.

Curtis would probably be in one the action as well, if it wasn't for the fact that Fletcher seems to have jumped on her back out of unrestrained primal instinct to protect her friend, holding Curtis in place by the curly red ponytail as she beats her over the head with a dirty soccer cleat.

The rest of the team (sans Abernathy, who would more than likely just be shouting obscenities from the sidelines and wielding a very threatening crutch if she were here) waste no time in gathering around them in a circle, chanting and screaming and routing for who they want to win. A few even throw in a some well placed kicks and punches here and there.

Coach Greenberg's blood pressure rises high enough for him to snap his clipboard in half. He goes into his own fit of rage on the sidelines, throwing the broken clipboard down, kicking at the grass, and whistling with all his might, even though it doesn't exactly make a difference because none of them seem to be paying him any mind whatsoever.

On the bleachers, Dean and Sam watch the scene unfold with similar expressions of wide-eyed amazement.

"Still think we'll need the holy water and sweat towels?" Sam asks softly, clearly in a trance by what he's seeing.

Dean blinks, mouth agape, lips barely moving as he mumbles out. "... I think we should've brought more..."

"KARRIGAN! THAT'S NOT WHERE WE SHOVE OUR CLEATS!"

…

"A _**lot**_ more."

* * *

It takes a few hours to calm all of them down (Coach Greenberg included) but once the world's most violent fucking soccer scrimmage _ever_ comes to an end, the Winchesters make their move.

Most of the team has long since dispersed. It's easier to find her now that she's Blood-Splattered Mulligan, standing off in the corner by the benches, conversing with the ever so vengeful Cleat Wielding Fletcher.

The uniforms have been replaced with street clothes, but they both stick out like very, _**very**_ sore thumbs due to those last ten minutes when a few of the other girls decided to be "team players" and helped out in trying to beat them to mushy, bloody pulps.

Mulligan looks as if she's been hit by a freight train; the right side of her cheek is badly bruised, her bottom lip is split open, her nose is dried with blood, and somehow she'd managed to break two of her fingers in the midst of all the chaos; both wrapped up in a metal splint after much fussing and wrestling with the paramedic, and, of course, the crack of bones being set back into place accompanied by the exclamation of "HOLY SHIT, YOU JUST BROKE THEM _**MORE**_!"

And yet still, she's smiling at Fletcher as if she actually believes the sun shines out of their asses. As if the two of them didn't just get the ever loving holy crap beaten out of them.

Alright, so maybe there's hope for this kid after all. _Maybe_.

"That was quite the practice, eh girls?" Dean grins as he and Sam finally have the chance to do what they initially came here for. Actually _**talk **_to the kid.

Fletcher instantly blushes at the grin, or perhaps the comment. Or maybe it's the whole package wrapped up in a form-fitting t-shirt and Adidas track pants.

"Thank... you? ... Total stranger we've never met before...?" Mulligan, however, remains unaffected with just a single arch of her dark eyebrow and quite frankly, Dean doesn't know whether to be unbelievably grateful or slightly insulted.

"I'm John Connor," Sam introduces, pointing to himself before jabbing an index finger in Dean's direction. "This is Kyle Reese."

"We work with your dad." Dean adds in.

Mulligan's interest seems to skyrocket at that little slither of information. "You're from the mechanic shop? What're you doing here? Where's my dad? He's okay, isn't he?"

Dean opens his mouth and then closes it, tilting his head back as the slur of questions rush out at him faster than any human could process.

Any human who isn't his super geek of a brother anyway. "John's fine. He just couldn't make it today, so he asked us to swing on by. Wanted to know how it went."

"Yeah, I texted him earlier. He never answered though..." Mulligan shrugs her shoulders. "That's John for you. Here one minute, gone the next. Right out of thin air. Like a spy... or a ninja... or a rogue CIA agent who also works for an underground Japanese fighting ring."

Dean barely manages to suppress a snort at the ninja comment, playing it off as a cough. With a few sniffles for added measure. He steps on Sam's foot to remind him why they're here.

Right. Blinking away the small trance he'd nearly gotten sucked into - it was fucking _**scary**_ how much she suddenly resembled Dean during that tiny little ramble - Sam offers up the jug of holy water and a disposable paper cup he'd swiped from the benches.

"I hear you. My dad was like that too. But I'm sure John has good reason for what he does."

She lifts the cup up to her lips and then pauses. Something inside Dean coils tightly, and Sam isn't too far behind with how on edge he is.

"Eh. I guess you're right. I don't know though. I'm not really all that daughter-y with John."

There's another pause, a small shrug of her shoulders, and then she downs the water in a single long gulp.

They give it a minute, just to be sure. But nothing happens aside from her asking for more and Fletcher requesting some too, now holding a paper cup of her own. Sam indulges both of them and Dean dishes out the towels.

"Daughter-y?" Dean asks. "What do you mean?"

Mulligan purses her lips and wraps the towel around the back of her neck. "You don't even know my name, do you?"

Again, they give it a minute, always two steps ahead of the Just In Case scenario. But again, nothing happens. And honestly, the Winchesters aren't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing at this point. There had definitely been some hoping that Dean was right about this one...

"Uhhh..." Dean glances at Sam. Sam glances back at Dean. Neither one of them have an answer to supply.

Mulligan looks as if that's exactly what she expected all along, and surprisingly not upset about it either. "See? M'pretty sure no one even knows John Winchester _has_ a daughter."

"You have no idea..." Dean mumbles lowly underneath his breath, eliciting a sharp elbow to the side from Sam that he barely plays off as non-existent. "_**Omphf.**_"

"He's got a lot on his mind lately. Mostly work stuff." Sam defends gently, forcing out a smile. "But after this practice? I know he'll want to show up next time for sure."

"Oh yeah." Mulligan huffs out a snort. "That'll be loads of fun."

"Nothing like a free for all to bring families together, right?" Dean quips, but unfortunately for him, the double-meaning behind his sarcasm goes unnoticed for everyone besides Sam.

Sam who intervenes. Quickly. "Anyway, we should probably start heading back. You were something out there."

"Okay..." She nods her head, snorting once more. "And if by something you mean a total joke, then yeah, I guess I was."

"Hey, practice makes perfect, kid." Dean says, pointing a finger at her. Then adds on upon remembering recent events. "For soccer _**and **_a decent left hook. Remember that."

Mulligan gives him a mock salute and before they know it, the Winchesters are making their way down the field back to the car. Neither of them is quite sure what to make of anything that happened in the last two hours, but they're both agreeing on one thing...

"Why couldn't she have been a demon?" Dean asks once they're by the Impala, a low grumble of words that he might've regretted saying out loud if he didn't truly believe the alternative could've been a better outcome.

Sam throws the sports duffle into the backseat. Leans against the car next to his brother. "'Cause we're never that lucky?"

They both watch her talk to Fletcher, who seems all too eager to replay her end of the fight, bringing a fist down to repeatedly strike at the air just as she'd done to poor Curtis' head with the tabooed soccer cleat.

"I tried to tell you, man." Sam responds after a minute of silence.

"Tried to tell me what?" Dean groans, brow furrowing with his inquiry. He hates when Sam's right about things.

"The other night, I found an entry in Dad's journal from January 1990. Saying he's headed to Minnesota to check out a case. Next two pages? Torn out."

"... And you couldn't have mentioned this sooner?" Dean asks.

Sam's left eye twitches. It actually fucking twitches. But before he has the chance to say anything, the prominent jingle of a phone cuts him off.

It's John's old flip phone, echoing from the sports duffle.

Dean leans into the car and fishes it out. Sees that it's a text message. Reads it over and instantly feels like the worst person on the face of the earth.

"What? What is it?" Sam asks, catching the twinge of the older Winchester's face before he could even finish inspecting the contents of the screen.

Dean uses a thumb to scratch idly at his jawline. Propels the cellular device at his brother and states in a clear voice, "We shouldn't have lied about Dad."

Then proceeds to clamber on back into the Impala.

Sam frowns and looks down at the phone. Allows his eyes to flick over the same text message.

"_Hey Dad, practice was awesome! I knocked someone's tooth out with the back of my HEAD! Wish you could've been there, but I understand. Maybe you'll see it next time? xoxo Amanda"._

... Sam really hates it when Dean is right.


End file.
